


The Gentleman Barber

by i_claudia



Series: Check/Mate [7]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, Facial Hair, Knifeplay, M/M, Secret Relationship, Shaving, The Royal Navy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin had allowed his whiskers to grow far longer than was his usual custom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gentleman Barber

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/80081.html). (14 November 2011)
> 
> Written as part of Facial Hair Appreciation Week, in support of the Sisterhood for More Facial Hair Porn (SMorFP).

Merlin had allowed his whiskers to grow far longer than was his usual custom—but perhaps _allowed_ was not entirely the right word for it: it had been less a conscious decision than the dictate of circumstance. After all, a captain faced with a furious gale and towering seas for days on end, his crew near-dead from exhaustion and illness, is necessarily less-inclined to concern himself with the minor niceties of hygiene if he is worthy of the title, which Captain Emrys indubitably and inarguably was on all accounts. 

Merlin had half-heartedly trimmed the whiskers upon reaching port, evening the rough edges of the beard—it could not be denied that he had long since passed the threshold of merely unshaven into proper whiskers—but between seeing to his ship and his crew and the myriad visits he was bound to make to his prize agent and creditors and all others who demanded pieces of his time, he had neither the will nor the inclination to visit a proper barber. He knew he must, eventually; knew he should not so openly break tacit convention: a ragged beard was an acceptable thing for the captain of a whaler; trimmed appropriately it could serve admirably for a merchant; but an officer in the service of the king was held to higher standards. He told himself that at the first free moment he should seek out the nearest barber...though he could not help but think of the searing look Arthur had fixed him with, the first time they had set eyes on each other after the months of waiting, and of the small comments which Arthur had since made on the topic of Merlin’s hirsute appearance.

Arthur had never given more than a passing thought to the faces and hair of other men, (though he himself had taken to sporting whiskers in the imperial style in Merlin’s absence,) and his own reaction had surprised him—shocked him—when he had seen Merlin. 

Merlin, he supposed, had always and ever been a singular exception. 

~:~

Merlin’s beard scraped unbearably over Arthur’s skin, stung his cheeks and chin and lips when they kissed, and Arthur shuddered to feel it; he attempted to pull away and yet found he could not. The first time Merlin kissed his way low, moving until he came to rest between Arthur’s legs—lazily spread wide over the rumpled covers of the bed—Arthur cried out at the sensation.

Merlin sat upright, his knees under him and his cock dark and straining still, worried he might have hurt the other man. It had been such a long time since they had last met, and Arthur had never been one for making noise before. “Arthur?” He ran his fingertips gently down the pale insides of Arthur’s thighs, which served to soothe them both.

“Carry on,” Arthur said, winding his hands tightly together over his head and staring at the low ceiling, half-sunk in a daze. He swallowed. “Please, Merlin.”

Merlin, unsure, bent down once more, careful as he dragged his tongue along Arthur’s length; Arthur sighed and squirmed, edging his hips closer, his legs wider. Merlin placed a firm hand upon his belly and was just leaning to take him properly, tucking his chin close, that he might not scrape Arthur’s most sensitive parts, when Arthur spoke again, voice ragged despite all his attempts to keep his words from shaking.

“Merlin, your—” he broke off, his colour rising ferociously under Merlin’s gaze. “I want to feel it,” he concluded. It was clumsier than he would have liked, but Merlin had always possessed this power over him—had always been able to reduce his legendary capacity for cool reason and coherence to stuttering frustration—and Arthur suspected neither of them truly minded. He reached with one hand to draw his fingers across the rasp of Merlin’s jaw to properly make his point, instead.

Merlin drew in a sharp breath, taken aback, but Arthur withdrew his hand and stretched himself further on the bed, pleading with his body. He knew the picture they made—pale skin in summer sunlight, their clothes in scattered heaps on the polished floors of the small cottage, Merlin’s neckcloth hanging from an exquisite wingback chair, the white bedclothes losing a certain new-washed crispness beneath their exertions—used it to his not inconsiderable advantage—and Merlin found himself unable to resist.

The rub against Arthur’s skin was merciless, consuming, and Arthur drew his lip hard between his teeth to keep himself from shouting—he could allow himself to cry out here, he thought, dizzy, but old habit held him strong—and twisted his fingers further into the pillow he was clutching, pulling it across his face to muffle the whimpers which leaked from the corners of his mouth. Merlin’s whiskers burned against his skin: his thighs felt raw already; the tenderest parts between them were screaming agony after Merlin had finished with them and turned back to Arthur’s cock, slippery now with the arousal which had become very nearly too much for Arthur to bear. 

Merlin plunged his head down, heedless of his chin and the places where it scratched, and Arthur could no longer stifle the noises and obscenities spilling from his mouth, no longer cared to—there was no one within ten miles to hear—and he only pulled the pillow more tightly to his eyes as Merlin worked. Merlin’s whiskers chafed at every turn, rubbing Arthur further raw—it was too much, Arthur was sobbing for breath—it was terrible—wonderful—he must stop it—he wished for it to go on forever. He knew he looked a broken man, writhing beneath the onslaught: he could feel it in his own fevered skin, see it writ upon Merlin’s face when he opened his eyes to plead.

“Merlin,” he managed, the name breaking to a whimper on his lips, and groaned when Merlin looked up to meet his gaze.

“My God,” Merlin said, hissing a breath between his teeth, his own voice rough and shaking. He laid his cheek on Arthur’s leg as if to rest, rubbed his face against the tender flesh. Arthur’s breath caught and quivered—he moaned again. “Lord, Arthur, look at you.” Merlin could feel the beard scrape skin again as he spoke, felt the fine trembling building beneath his touch, and knew Arthur to be close. He reached out to brush his fingers along Arthur’s cock, slick now from his attentions, then drew them further down to drag over the sac drawn up tight to Arthur’s body, the skin red-raw and near burning to the touch. 

Arthur gasped, the elegantly appointed room seeming to slip, tilting around him, and Merlin curled his tongue around where his fingers touched, licked his way up and sank down again, turning his face as he was able—the barest scrape of his whiskers touched Arthur—and Arthur was lost, had not even time to warn Merlin before it was upon him, his body seizing in terrible ecstasy—and to his later embarrassment, he knew no more.

~:~

When he awoke, Merlin was curled against his side, unbearably smug. Arthur had a great deal he wished to say about _that_ , but his mind caught and held at the realisation that at the corners of Merlin’s lips and on his chin—just there, trapped in the bristles—was a bit of Arthur’s seed.

Arthur felt himself stiffening once more, and abruptly pulled Merlin to him, sliding a bold palm down the smooth slope of Merlin’s back to squeeze gently at his arse. 

Merlin went easily, for he had not yet reached his own release. “I had hoped you would not forget me,” he teased, maintaining a light tone, and rolled his hips, sliding himself close and intimate along Arthur’s side.

“I have,” Arthur told him gravely, between tiny, snatched kisses, “a brilliant idea.”

Merlin raised his eyebrows in the scepticism which was his habit, but there was no time to make his reply, for Arthur was rolling them over and opening his reddened thighs until Merlin was able to slide along the hot, intimate furrow of his arse, and Merlin forgot all else in the wake of the lust which only Arthur could elicit, a desire which seemed to spiral up from the very bones of him to overwhelm his soul.

~:~

Arthur did not forget. The following morning, while Merlin was hanging the washing up to dry in the garden—without a stitch of clothing on, for they had soiled his last pair of clean breeches the evening before, coming back from a brisk walk in the woods which circled the cottage, and Merlin was more fastidious than even Morgana about keeping his possessions clean and mended, a fact for which Arthur enjoyed giving him no end of grief—he fetched a bowl of warm water and set it on a low table near the richly embroidered divan nearest to the empty fireplace before laying out his own shaving kit nearby and seating himself.

He was not sure what Merlin’s reaction might be, but the natural passions of his spirit encouraged him toward risk, and he could not imagine Merlin turning him away. Merlin might alter the structure of his plans, but Arthur—safe, tucked away from the world’s eyes with Merlin at his side, free to lean and steal a kiss wherever he pleased—Arthur could not believe Merlin might dismiss him out of hand. The nervous thrill which gripped him, then, served only to heighten the agreeable bother of waiting, and did not dampen his enthusiasm in the least. He drew one leg up, that he would not strain his wrist, and reached leisurely for the pot of scented liniment which he had earlier placed within reach.

Merlin found him there some time later.

“By all the saints and angels in God’s sweet heaven,” Merlin exclaimed, startled into interrupting the statement he had planned to give regarding the unfortunate condition of the rose beds—an effect, he suspected, entirely caused by Arthur’s behaviour the night before—“Arthur, what—”

The power of speech drained from him as the shock somewhat subsided, for how could he form words in the face of this? Arthur was slumped on the elegant divan for Merlin to admire, two fingers stretched deep inside him; the skin around them was slick, his cock curved up toward his belly as if it too was begging for Merlin’s touch; his lips were red and swollen from the press of his teeth, as they would have been after an hour of Merlin’s sweetest attentions. His eyelashes fluttered further shut, as if the delicate skin were suddenly too heavy to hold open, and Merlin was rooted to the spot, struck to the bone. He did not notice the bowl or kit or even the table itself—imported at great expense from India—so intent was he on the vision of Arthur naked and wanton before him, a prince of Babylon; the luxuriant trappings of the room turned grey and humble before his splendour. 

Merlin dropped to his knees before him, bending his head to Arthur’s raised foot as a supplicant, all the strength run out of him. He could smell Arthur, the heavy musk of Arthur’s arousal enveloping him as the embroidery of the divan scratched against his forehead, and he pressed a tender kiss to the warm arch of Arthur’s foot where it lay next to him—all the declaration he was capable of. 

It was enough. The touch of Merlin’s lips roused Arthur from his state—he felt his senses had been drugged by the steady touches he had pressed on himself and the scent of the garden roses which had wafted to him from the open window, bringing with it the sound of Merlin’s pleasant tenor as he hummed a song Arthur did not know. 

But Merlin was now bent before him, and Arthur put his foot carefully on the floor, drawing Merlin up as he did so. Merlin obeyed without thought, stunned as a fish once more after watching, greedily, as Arthur’s hole gaped wide around the space which his fingers had filled before clenching as a fist upon itself. Merlin bit the corner of his mouth, and struggled for a semblance of control.

“You are the most beautiful man I have ever known,” he murmured once Arthur was standing also, and wrapped his hands around Arthur at the hips. The old desire flared in his chest—a force which never ceased to make his heart and breath race as if this dance between them was once more new. Arthur drew him in with a hand upon his cheek for a kiss—deep; achingly sweet and dangerous—before gently guiding Merlin around to sit where he had been not minutes before.

“I wish for you to take me,” Arthur said, in even tones which surprised them both. “Here, like this.” With one hand he continued to stroke Merlin’s beard, leaning down to press a kiss to each cheek and then the chin, finding the small patch of exposed skin just beneath Merlin’s mouth, enjoying the scratch of the whiskers along his plush bottom lip. “And then I should like very much to shave you.” He placed a thumb over Merlin’s mouth, rubbing a bit, and Merlin could taste the smell of him on the skin, flickered his tongue out once to better savour the salt of it on Arthur’s finger. Arthur blinked, slow, and swayed forward. “If that is agreeable to you?” he managed, his voice dark, husky now from the want which filled his throat. 

A silence fell between them, filled by chatter of birds outside and the gentle sound of sunlight falling through the windows, which is only ever heard in springtime, when the whole earth lets forth in rejoicing. The narrow stream which ran along one side of the garden chuckled to itself in a clear, delighted voice, and Merlin, as he stared up at Arthur, could hear even the small, delicate noises of a mouse moving about in the pantry—the cat which was the cottage’s only permanent resident had taken herself for a stroll in the early morning and had not yet deigned to return. 

Merlin licked his lips, and the drag of his parched tongue rang loud in his ears. His voice when he spoke was barely more than a hoarse whisper. “Yes. Yes—that would be very agreeable. For me.”

Arthur smiled—a sudden smile which robbed Merlin of his remaining breath—and kissed Merlin again as he lowered himself into Merlin’s lap, shifting his weight about until they were able to find a comfortable position, Merlin’s hard length slipping over the furled muscles of Arthur’s arse. Merlin attempted to open Arthur further on his fingers, but Arthur shook his head, frowning—he dragged his lips along Merlin’s jaw as he reached back to guide Merlin fully into him, every inch of him an imperious demand for Merlin to set aside any lingering concerns and accept the given orders.

They remained still for a moment, gasping as they both adjusted, Arthur’s nose pressed hard into the curve of Merlin’s shoulder as the breath heaved against his ribs. It never ceased to shock, this first entrance—it seemed to Arthur that no matter how often he was breached, in the between times he somehow managed to forget how fully he was overcome by the feel of Merlin within him. It seemed no matter how tightly he tried to cling to this moment, to remember the taste of Merlin’s skin beneath his tongue—skin, Arthur liked to imagine, as salty as the sea itself—it escaped him every time, true memory only rushing back when pain slid to spiking pleasure as Merlin sank deep to split him, to shatter him to pieces.

Arthur roused himself—he had no desire to waste their time with mere thoughts of memory—and moved: awkwardly at first, given the angles forced upon him by the seat, and then with increased vigour as they became accustomed to the motions. 

Merlin knew he could not hope to last for long, not when he had hands on the muscles which flexed beneath Arthur’s skin as he fucked himself on Merlin’s cock, using Merlin with broken gasps, not when he could feel every twitch within Arthur’s body; but when he reached down to bring Arthur to climax first, Arthur stopped him, strong fingers wrapping tight around the bones of Merlin’s wrist. 

“Not yet,” Arthur said—a demand, broken but determined still, and that—the stone behind Arthur’s fevered stare—that was far too much for Merlin as a mortal man to bear. He felt the wave bearing him up, and after a moment’s struggle succumbed to the force of the tide, allowing himself to be carried on by some higher force. He dug his nails deep into the burning heat of Arthur’s skin, marking the flesh blindly—and finished, crashing as surf upon the rocks with hitching thrusts until he was left trembling on the shore, weak and washed thin from the tumbling and the fall. 

Arthur forced himself to slow and stop his movements only by virtue of the iron will which was the particular gift of generations of his family, and even then was only barely able to check himself. He wished to ride Merlin wildly, draw Merlin’s hand to his cock and come with his lips on Merlin’s beard as Merlin softened within him—he wished to run his nose and mouth and tongue over the rasp of Merlin’s whiskered jaw—the plan he had conceived could surely wait...It was only with the most forceful of thoughts that he managed to move himself again and stand, letting forth an involuntary cry as Merlin slipped from him.

The morning had scarcely advanced; the mouse still scrabbled in the pantry. Arthur was deaf to all, blind to all outside of Merlin. _Merlin_ , whose seed he could now feel sliding down his legs, who had left him fucked and empty but for his heart, which, over-full, jumped and jumped again within his breast. Merlin watched him, mind quiet and drained still from his release, and leant back his head until he was able to rest it upon the cushion, exposing his neck. His eyes fell closed; the pulse in his throat beat in a steady flutter. 

Arthur reached with trembling hands for the blade. 

It was a fine razor, nearly new, its straight edge barely dulled. It was possessed of a fine bone and mother-of-pearl handle, and the sheen of the metal proclaimed it to be of the very finest calibre. Arthur had purchased it for himself in a fit of opulence, and had not yet once been given reason to rue the purchase. He handled it now with reverence, feeling the handle warm against his palm, running a gentle nail along the edge to test it. 

“I believe you are running ahead of yourself, Arthur.”

Arthur started at the sound of Merlin’s voice, nearly nicking the skin of his thumb, and looked at Merlin, who smoothed a hand over his beard. 

Arthur made a face. “I hadn’t forgotten.”

“I’m sure you hadn’t.” Merlin was laughing, damn him. Arthur bit back a smile and laid the razor carefully down again, turning to the various other accoutrements he had set out for himself before. Merlin settled beneath Arthur’s touch, and Arthur—ignoring the trembling in his hands as he spread the lather—found the familiar motions aided him in the struggle for composure.

Merlin kept his eyes on Arthur, taking no little pleasure in the sight of Arthur bent over him, naked as a jaybird, frowning just enough to crease his forehead as he concentrated on Merlin’s face, his erection bobbing in the air between them. Arthur’s state—indeed, their whole tableau—seemed ridiculously out of place in the middle of such a well-appointed room, the grandfather clock in one corner ticking solemnly along to the rising buzz of insects outside the window. The seat was warm under Merlin’s skin; he could feel the sun hot on one foot, and shifted until his toes curled against the cooler wood of the floor just by the carved foot of the divan. The muscles stretched across his stomach tingled still from climax, but he could feel pleasure coiling within him again, and did not think it impossible that Arthur’s gentle ministrations might lead to further arousal. It was strangely intimate, he thought, to be so stretched before another man; a curious sensation to be exposed entirely, his own hands useless at his sides, as Arthur set aside the bowl and picked up the razor with a strange, dark look to his eyes. It was a look which promised things Merlin scarcely knew he wanted, and he could not control the tight shiver which ran through him. 

  
  
([Art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/751550) by the incomparable [alby_mangroves](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Alby_Mangroves).)   


He shivered again when Arthur set the blade gently against his skin, though he fought it, and Arthur drew away, the thin coolness of the razor leaving as suddenly as it had come.

“Merlin.”

It was a question, though Arthur had not thought to make it one, and Merlin breathed deeply through his nose, and nodded.

Arthur pressed his lips to Merlin’s forehead, to the tip of Merlin’s nose, and brought the razor down to bear once more, watching in fascination as it cut a sure path across Merlin’s pale skin. It required a different motion from those he used to shave himself—which he did not often do anyway, making him feel even more a rank beginner—and he began slowly, scraping the honed edge carefully along Merlin’s bristles, but he soon became accustomed to it, and shortly was able to exercise a more authoritative hand, which suited him admirably and made him feel a good deal less worried that he might suffer an accidental slip and cut Merlin instead of the beard.

The thought that he might cut Merlin _deliberately_ grew in his mind, despite all his attempts to crush it silent. It was a terrifying thing to have Merlin laid out beneath him with his eyes closed and his neck exposed beneath the razor; Arthur felt a dangerous sense of power seep into him as he worked unhurriedly on the spot just above the bone of Merlin’s jaw, leaving the whiskers to stretch further down than they had before the beard. The razor slid easily over Merlin’s skin, carrying away all traces before it, and Arthur ached when he thought how horrifyingly simple it would be to press a little harder, a little deeper, to cut _in_ until the flesh parted and the red blood showed through. The thought aroused him even as he grew frightened of it, of himself—for did not Merlin’s blood haunt his nightmares, the copper heat of it spreading in a shipwreck sea?—how should he ever bring himself to harm Merlin?

Arthur pulled the razor away to wipe the blade, shaking beneath the force of such thoughts and doing his utmost to ignore the liquid which was rolling up out of his cock to make it slick. He thought of stopping, of running, when Merlin’s face was still only half-shaved: a farcical look on even the gravest of men.

Merlin’s lips were parted, and as Arthur stared at him in the agony of newfound confusion and desire, he noticed that Merlin was breathing in shallow, quiet pants, his hands clenched tightly to his sides. Yet he did not seem afraid, Arthur realised, and as his gaze travelled it fixed on Merlin’s erection—curved to his belly and just as hard and dark as Arthur’s.

Merlin opened his eyes, though they remained half-lidded. “Arthur,” he said. “Why have you _stopped_?”

Arthur swallowed to clear some of the tightness in his throat, and swallowed again. “I cannot—I’m not sure if...what if I hurt you?” he finished lamely, and wished he could take the words back again but could not think of anything satisfactory to add instead.

“You won’t,” Merlin said, quite simply, as if he knew it to be an absolute truth, and closed his eyes again.

Arthur, to his great relief, found he was able to breathe once more as the underpinning truth of his tumbling thoughts made itself clear. The edge he felt as he set the blade to Merlin’s skin could not force him to wound Merlin, had not been clamouring for Merlin’s blood to be spilled in twisted consecration—Arthur’s own rising nausea had been proof enough of that. But without that the _potential_ still remained: the chance that Arthur might, through error or his own desire, harm Merlin; draw lines in his flesh and press down to expose the whiteness of bone.

The strokes came more easily to Arthur now, more naturally, and he fancied he could feel the trust stretched thick between them, which bound them together too tightly for either of them to truly free themselves. Cradled in this, he allowed himself to sink fully into the movement of the razor, let himself become absorbed completely by the slow revelation of Merlin’s skin beneath the lather and the hair, and desire hit him anew, levelled squarely at his gut, nearly blinding him with the force of it as it swamped his limbs. He leant close as he swept more of Merlin’s face clear, closing on the last few inches; he could feel Merlin’s breath on his lips, and that sharp-edged prickle of potential remained and grew between them until Arthur felt sweat break out upon his brow. There was not much left now—one good stroke should finish it—he wiped the blade again and set it to the skin, hesitating; Merlin’s hips were shifting slightly, pushing into the air by fractions—he had lost the control necessary to remain still. The sight nearly drove Arthur mad, but he willed himself into a delirious calm and slid the razor across the final patch, pressing harder than he meant to but pulling back at last to leave Merlin bare-cheeked below him, the skin so new-revealed flushing pink from the friction of the blade and a rising lust.

Arthur had barely set aside the razor, his mind half-full of mad ideas knotted through by overwhelming want, when Merlin moved, all impulsive fluid grace as he took Arthur to the floor and pinned his hips roughly down; he had his mouth on Arthur’s cock almost before Arthur realised his intent, sucking desperately, nearly gagging on it when he attempted to take more of it than he was able. Arthur gasped, and thrashed against Merlin’s grip, and bit the back of his own hand, but nothing could stem the pressure which rose sudden and insistent within him—he was too close to last for long—he had stretched himself to the last limit—and he arched back hard, pressing his head and the soles of his feet into the floor as he came.

Merlin released him at the first taste but stayed close, and Arthur groaned to see it: Merlin’s face hanging low over Arthur’s cock as his seed splashed over Merlin’s smooth cheeks, glistening as it came to rest in streaks across his face and neck. Merlin’s mouth hung open, and Arthur was seized in a second, choking convulsion of his muscles when Merlin’s tongue came out to catch Arthur’s come, but he had no more left to spend. 

He collapsed slowly, and Merlin whined deep in his throat, reaching a hand down to pull urgently at his own hard cock, which was wet already and slid easily in his palm; Arthur’s breath came unevenly at the slick sound of it, and he was reaching down to feel it for himself when Merlin cried out, swearing long and loud as his come went all over the floor and Arthur’s hand and Arthur’s legs, hot where it landed on Arthur’s skin, and Arthur swore quietly himself as the shuddering tension drained out of Merlin until they lay tangled together in the mess.

Merlin’s face was close to Arthur’s, his eyelashes long charcoal swoops which tickled Arthur’s skin, and Arthur pushed him carefully away, not wishing to disturb him overmuch but distracted by the thought of his release on Merlin’s body; he wished, _needed_ to taste. He laid Merlin more fully on the floor, easing his torso from beneath Merlin’s dead weight, and kissed his cheek gently once, and again; flicking his tongue out in small, tender licks across the rise of cheekbones and the strong curve of Merlin’s jaw until Merlin was clean and murmuring encouragement beneath him, one arm snaking gently around Arthur’s waist to hold him close. 

Arthur wished to say something, to express his thanks, but sleep crept up too quickly, stealing over them in quiet stealth, and he let it bear him away, content that for once there would be enough time upon waking for all he wished to say.

 

~:~

 

~:~

 

~:~

 

Merlin unconsciously braced himself against the familiar motion of the ship as he squinted at the small mirror which had finally cracked in the last gale and which was mottled all along one side by salt air and the sea. His razor—much less fine than Arthur’s, but eminently serviceable still—lay close to hand, and yet he hesitated, pondering the short whiskers which had grown across his chin. They had two weeks yet before they came near a port where he might have to present a distinguished face to the world, and though he knew he should be firm in setting an example against slovenliness for the officers and the crew, every time he reached up a hand he could hear Arthur’s voice grow desperate: the memory of how Arthur had squirmed and swore at the scratch from Merlin’s chin, the look on Arthur’s face when he’d shaved Merlin clean; these were still too strong for Merlin to properly breathe beneath the grip of it.

He left the razor where it lay, and turned back to the charts he had laid earlier upon the table. A few days more, he told himself. A few days, and he would return in full to the upright man the world saw in him, removing the memory of Arthur from his immediate senses and becoming once more the immaculate Captain Emrys.

The skin along his jaw itched, and he reached to soothe it without thinking, absorbed in the charts and in wondering whether Arthur had been studying the movements of the stars as he had promised. A few days more, he thought again, and left his chin cradled in his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: The gorgeous art embedded in the story was made by alby_mangroves, who is fantastic and a brilliant artist and if you enjoyed the art in all its scorching hot glory, you should immediately run, not walk, to [leave a comment](http://archiveofourown.org/works/751550) saying so!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Gentleman Barber](https://archiveofourown.org/works/751550) by [alby_mangroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves)




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